Thunderbolt Blooming - Alan Harris · as forgotten feelings blazed up in the tangy wind. Today,...

Thunderbolt Blooming

Poems of 1994

by Alan Harris

The Perpetual winks.

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Poems and Photos Copyright © 2008 by Alan Harris.All rights reserved.

Thunderbolt Blooming

Poems of 1994

by Alan Harris

http://www.alharris.com/pdfbooks

18 Rules ..........................................16Another Dance ..................................7Aroma of Duty ................................12As Far Beyond As Here ....................1Deep Coffee, Alone ...........................6Electric Heart ....................................8Feathered Ephemera ..........................9Free of Verse ...................................17It All Rises.......................................10Listening to Christmas ......................5Messages from Beyond ...................18Music from Hannah ........................15No Darkness, No Diamonds ...........13A Retreat Ahead .............................. 11Short & Sour ...................................19Sutra Salad ......................................14Ventilating the House of Knowing ....2Within Our Keep ...............................4

About Alan Harris ...........................20

Contents(Alphabetically)

1Thunderbolt Blooming - Copyright © 2008 by Alan Harris. All rights reserved. www.alharris.com/poems

As Far Beyond As HerePerhaps your mind, when still, has reached a brinkBeyond which bottom, top, and sides releaseTheir hold, immersing all you are and thinkIn boundlessly profound, peculiar peace.

Set free, aware, and only slightly caughtWithin the web you’ve spun of tickling flesh,You feel you understand why you were broughtTo live within earth’s tantalizing mesh.

What sage or mystic ever wrote a lineContaining more than hints of what you feelAnd almost know to be the life divineWhich tinglings from the vast unknown reveal?

Experienced have you this thunderbolt?And savored have you since then every volt?


Ventilating the House of KnowingKnowing is stowing;unknowing is flowing.

Building a house requires intricate knowing;living in it will tap a rich, dangerous stream not charted in the blueprints.

To study someone’s horoscope numerically builds up a house of concepts;to cry with someone is to surrender to an indescribable flowing.

Financial expertise is a product of keen attention and experience;heartfully allocating resources can be done by a three-year-old giving his dog a biscuit.

To gather straight A’s in college is an obedient harvesting of the known;later upheavings may lead to sleepless, fathomless nights that drain away diplomas but open one’s heart to a fresh humility.

Knowing is a keen memory of all the chess openings, over a neatly squared chess board, with well-behaved pieces;unknowing brings one to a bewilderment in midgame from which a victory may spring.

Knowing within a religion can spawn rickety beliefs, defensive fears, or exclusive duality;to avoid naming the nameless, or believing in the heard, or excluding the “other” can admit a universe into the mind, and release the mind into a universe.

Experience leads to knowing; knowing leads to more intense experience;then perhaps to a shambles; from which may emanate a steadying awe of the flowing.

The known manifests as forward motion;the unknown as a gentle, inscrutable smile.

The knower has developed a system for success, having created a perfect tinker toy windmill;his fragile fabrication already tosses precariously on an unseen boundless sea.

Many know their appetites, preferring a certain spice or sugar;the mysterious source of all flavors is unknown to them but controls their dining.

Professors in universities want to increase and perpetuate the known;the Perpetual winks.

Knowing is to have a well-kept lawn;flowing is to have nothing but everything, to leave it right where it is, and perhaps to care for the lawn too.

(Continued)


A brilliant nation converts a billion dollars worth of knowing into a Stealth Bomber;to sit at one’s dinner table is to fly imperceptibly fast on a planet, free of charge, without need of a target.

Knowers worry about dying, which might destroy their tinker toy windmill;the imponderable is immense and welcomes windmills of all designs.

A violinist knows his part; a conductor knows his score; a composer knows how to notate his emotions;in concert all of them yield their knowings to the fountain source of music, with exquisite results.

The known is of great price;the unknown is priceless.

Assertions have been made herein as if known;a puff of wind from no direction will soon scatter them without loss.


Within Our KeepWhat is this stillness in the stable?What glow is here within our hearts?Who lies so small between us?

Far more seems given us in this bedthan infant pounds and length—how weigh, how measure possibilities?

Although just now our baby sleeps,his waking eyes reveal an inner light—some holy mystery within our keep.

We bow.We love.We are silent.


Listening to Christmas

Have you ever heard snow?Not the howling wind of a blizzard,not the crackling of snow underfoot,but the actual falling of snow?

We heard it one night in Wisconsinquite unexpectedlywhile walking up a hilltoward our cabin in the woods,a soft whisper between footsteps.We stopped, switched off our flashlights,and just listened.All around us in the darknesswe heard the gentle fallof snow on snow.No wind, no soundbut the snow.

Have you ever heard Christmas?Not the traffic noises in the city,not the bells and hymns and carols,beautiful as they are,not even the laughter of your childrenas they open their presents—but Christmas itself?

Have you been by yourselfand just sat and listened to the silence within,patiently, without letting the mindrace to the next Christmas chore?

Perhaps if you have,you felt the pulse of all humanitybeating in your own heart.

Perhaps you noticedan outflowing of lovefor all your brothers and sisterson the earth,a soft sense of Onenesswith all that lives.

In the silence of a snowy night,listen intently, holding your breath,and you may hear snow on snow.

Serene, alone,undisturbed by thought,listen to the silence in your heart,and you may hear Christmas.


Deep Coffee, AloneSuburbs (proud arks upon a primitive sea)leak.

Today a female heart has gone funny—funny like the strangest way a heart can feeland still beat.

Quiet on her white couch,drinking gourmet coffee,she wrestles with inner intrusionsnot covered by her insurance—uninvited bass notesare troubling her treble reality.

All is in place outdoors—sunshine properly warming her acre,fertile lawn greenly framingher sporty car aglitter in the driveway,white patio furniture gleamingfrom acceptably jaunty angles.

But indoors, wallpaper blurs near the couch.She cries—longly, profoundly cries.

Her architected home has no earsfor such snappings of heart,nor is her healthy lawnin sympathy wilting.

Her white couch, red car, green lawn,and petite palace of prepared comfortseem like checkers, smart but alienon a board whose game has fallendeep into chess for keeps.

Coffee and courage by now cool,she meekly questions the silence:“What is happening to me?”

Body, calm.Mind, thoughtless.Heart, electric.Silence, holy.

(Cup needs rinsing.)


Another DanceWhere are all the little nothingsI spoke to youwhen we were young?I want them back.You were so precious,sitting there on the porch swing,letting me put my hand up underthe back of your blouseto feel the smoothnessof female skin.Where is the femininitythat I gave you through my fingers?I want it back.Where is the bitchy grouchinessthat I gave you?I want it back. Give me it.I gave you my toolsand now you do all the workand give me your lazinessand bitch at me for itwith the bitchiness I gave you.Take your laziness back.Give me back my tools,and go get your own.This is a dance we aredancing,and I don’t want to haveto step on your feet,so watch carefullyas I lead you into leading meto lead you.This is a dance we aredancing.Oh, now it’s over.Clap, clap, clap.But there’ll be another.


Electric HeartWherein does the heartget its authorityto pick up the mindand take it for a rolling ridethrough a countrysideof gallant impossibilities?

My heart has leapt meto a moon for no more reasonthan it had to, on the chancea fireman’s net would beback on earth to catch me.

My heart, no longertrifling with blood,pumps pure electricitybecause I merelybreathed for eight monthsthe crackling ofsomeone’s lightning mind,now gone.

Nothing is left me but to thunderand wait for the ozone to clear.


Feathered EphemeraAfter I had set up the bird feederand filled it with seeds,the past entered into my lungslike an old friend in a gray overcoatcoming into the house out of November.

For a few momentsI (not seemed) was an earlier adult,vibrant with hints and smells,living younger in this aging bodyas forgotten feelings blazed upin the tangy wind.

Today, sparrows are flitting about the feederenjoying seedy morsels that heat themagainst crackling winter mornings.

Cheerio, sparrows!Each wiggly one of youbetokens a forgotten colorationin the cup of my soul.Cheerio! Eat your fillbefore the neighbor’s cateats his.


It All RisesSlicing the mountainwith a cool silence you can smell,slivers of pink lightrub and brush the crags.My ribs thrill out past the horizon.

Weaving this sunriseof mind,heart,spirit,we immortally must kissfrom across a smiling distance.

The euphoria I feelembracing your possibilitiesproves underneath all doubtthere is a yesof stranger stronger scentedness(sleeping fifty million winks a second)than possibly any manufactured no.


A Retreat AheadHere’s to Blaine and Jean Harker, those lovable two,with joy so contagious and counseling so true.A mourner in grief is a magnet to Jean,since few are the pains she’s not suffered or seen.

At the parties they give there is greatness of table,and every last diner eats more than he’s able.Jean’s food pantry likewise, for the hungry and poor,was much like her heart—a wide open door.

Their lives are committed to lifting the fallen,through talkin’ and workin’ and sweatin’ and bawlin’.An unspoken concern here is needful of saying—for Jean’s own self-healing we are fervently praying.

While Blaine may have yet to get milk from a cow,in spite of the Amish folks showing him how,he’s mastered the art of infectious laughterthat shatters the silence from floor-joist to rafter.

They’ve moved to the country near Old Shipshewana,but they can’t quite move in yet, as much as they wanna—while waiting for lodgers to kindly dislodgethey have set up their home in a large upper garage.

We honor the Harkers today, Blaine and Jean,and the Power behind them, so strong yet unseen.May God bless their home, the retreat of their dreams,granting laughter which heals, and the grace which redeems.


Aroma of DutyEaster lilies gladden(and teasingly madden)the kitchen atmosphereas I perform and pay income taxdutieson vocational gettings(because everybodyneeds some of whatI never quite received).

Gifting, I notice,pleases the lawand reduces the obligation.“Give and thou shalt deduct.”As a man receives for himself,so must he give to us all.

Around Easter tide we set rightevery least accountwith the mighty USand hope no mistakewill cloud our reputationor shrink our havings.

IRS laws embodya sprawling neo-Bible,rife with moral assumptions(teeth implicit and feared)about divorce,child support,medical expenses,the rich man’s burden—tradition all hard-wired.

Inexorably the Old Covenantis infiltrating my Easteras potted liliesperfume my reluctance.

As for Christ, how oftenI am invoking himas these tedious tax formsdance about under my fragrant lilies!


No Darkness, No DiamondsIf life is going well,don’t write.Know why?‘Cause you can’t.

Know why?‘Cause your creativityis all clogged upwith contentment.

Writing amidst blessingsis bleeding without wounds.

Why even read?Blow a tin whistleor talk to your uncle.

It’s OK.Very OK.


Sutra SaladIf contentment is enlightenment, then a cow is Buddha.

The kindly man in the mountain cave spoke but briefly: “Search for a way to stop searching.”

Ecstasy may have to sweep the floor tomorrow and hate it. Joy works long and lightly.

Life is a backwards meal. We are born with a full plate, getting the dessert first, and we end it with the broccoli and woody asparagus.

The difference between an evangelist and an egotist has yet to be discovered.

Do the holy ones desire desirelessness so that they can do whatever they want to?

Why do I like certain people more than others? Because I see a glow of divinity in them? Because they smile and give me things? Because my weaknesses are their strengths?

Gambling dies a little every time somebody throws away an unopened letter from Publisher’s Clearing House.

Like a dog chasing its tail, I struggle toward peace.

Prayer is a boy throwing his ball at the moon and hitting it.

The Guru Scam1. Here’s where you are.2. Here’s where you want to be.3. Here’s what I can do for you.4. Here’s how much you pay me.

The purest forgiveness is not to have noticed. To forgive, therefore, is not to.

A philosophy is a well-dressed metaphor waving from a limousine window.

A religion is a philosophy with a fence around it.

Unless it’s just fun to do, helping blows up the helper’s balloon a bit.


Music from HannahWhen Hannah comes over to visit our place,She fetches our old violin from its caseAnd places it under her chin to be playedWith its missing E-string and its horsehair all frayed.

Under Hannah Moore’s unafraid, amateur touch,The violin squeals and scratches so muchThat sooner or later some listener will say,“Oh, Hannah, let’s please put the violin away.”

Pretty soon she snaps open the old trumpet case,Tries out the three valves, puts the mouthpiece in place,And blows such a blast for a trumpeter’s callThat the pictures all rattle and sway on the wall.

When Hannah brings over her flute, however,We can sit here and listen for nearly foreverTo her musical phrases both smooth and staccatoWhich pleasantly shimmer with a heartfelt vibrato.

She has listened to Mozart from A to Z,And she loves any Beethoven symphony;Carmina Burana, the Nutcracker Suite—The best compositions to her are a treat.

Our piano’s been host to her musical fingersPlaying Mozart sonatas with feeling that lingers.Just give her an instrument, fancy or poor,And you’ll soon hear some music from Hannah Paige Moore.


18 Rules 1. Love truth.

2. Welcome folly.

3. Distrust goals.

4. Laugh deeply.

5. Farm money.

6. Die daily.

7. Give forgetfully.

8. Digest adversity.

9. Bury ambition.

10. Scrutinize motives.

11. Carry silence.

12. Befriend nature.

13. Work restfully.

14. Touch hearts.

15. Trust emptiness.

16. Avoid advising.

17. Break rules.

18.


Free of Versejet lag of the soul

as free as habitual wishes

cosmic popcorn for the mind

brushes my cheek

executives at pomp in the pompground

whisper while you whisk

bless this up until now pagan food that we may remain asleep in holiness

billions of internal collisions today, and the city burps in the dark

help reduce the national debt—buy US Savings Bonds

politician without a tongue, please—rare

wolf and fox a-smile

sweet encrypted mummies

smelling a buxom face


Messages from Beyond(Deceased persons have somehow carved their own epitaphs onto their gravestones.)

I like it here. Nobody ever telephones to sell me siding or insurance.

Why did my nurse let in that old-timer with the scythe?

There were errors in my life review. Why me? I’m suing.

Wow! Great near-death experience. Let’s go back now.... Hello?

Hell isn’t so bad. It may need work, but it’s better than Chicago.

My life was a waste, but I did donate my ashes to science.

Harps sound pretty, but not a billion harps at once. I’ll take hell.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Some idiot ahead of me in the tunnel turned off the white light.


Short & SourAn ounce of silence is worth a pound full of dogs.

For later flowers, if we but endure,Misfortune makes a good manure.

He seemed warm and open, sort of like an armpit.

Thanksgiving BlessingThank you, Lord, for what we’ve got.The turkey’s dead and we are not.

Loudest laughter may snarl after.

To retain his professorship, he published a cemetery of dead ideas with footnotes for headstones.

Infatuation: love so intense, beautiful, and brief as to be unachievable by the secure.

If thine eye offend thee, pluck out the plug on thy TV.

Quack?A New Age healermay improve on your luck,but listen wellto your inner duck.

A sperm can find an egg quicker than you can find your slippers.

She sued the mirror for visual abuse, and a lenient judge upheld it.

ExecHis expensive suit, his teeth so flossy,His wrong decisions at his desk so glossy,His colorful charts less gainy than lossy—Could it be that he is a lousy bossy?

Base: what businessmen are always touch-ing and covering.

Dysfunctional family: a discontented container containing the uncontainable.

Mountain: a failure of air to occupy a high altitude.

Calendar: a device for scheduling the unpredict-able.

Television: square thing in the corner that sucks in brains and spits out giggles.

Every Christmas the uninformed buy the unneces-sary for the ungrateful.

The spouse who loved the caterpillar may hate the butterfly.

There’s something about food that rubs off in you.

Behind his smile, agendas.

Infra-babble: what meditators hear sometimes, deep inside.

Higher education trains the mind to feel good later by making it feel terrible now.

Overachievers start out restless with a heart of worms, and may end up friendless with a heart of snakes.

What If?What if scant truth be known,And no disciples knew this?Their gurus they’d enthrone,Who’d smile and let them do this.


About Alan Harris When Alan Harris was born on Sunday, June 20, 1943, his father, Keith E. Harris, was piloting a B-17 in bombing missions over Europe while his mother (Margie) worried about Keith lovingly from Illinois.

Schooling in Earlville, Illinois (Alan’s home town) was interesting, useful, and generally free of creativity (do what the teacher says, get the good grade). From 5th through 12th grades he played the trumpet in the school band and enjoyed the contest trips. His father drove a school bus as part of his living (farming was the other part), and if Alan happened to ride on his father’s bus, he had to very much behave.

Illinois State University was where Alan became chagrined over how a student with a full class load could possibly keep up with all of the assignments given in said classes.

He felt he was a pawn in a game, but with judicious time-shuffling and corner-cutting he plowed along and made respectable grades amidst all the worries.

A bright spot at ISU was taking a contemporary American poetry class with Dr. Ferman Bishop. Through him Alan discovered depths in poetry that he had never dreamed of while in high school. E. E. Cummings took him for zingy flights of in-your-faceness. T. S. Eliot, whose symbols even had symbols, fully baffled him. Robert Frost was slyly charming. Emily Dickinson’s mastery of rhyme and meter for conveying soul and spirit made the young poet’s heart go funny. Alan started “being a poet” in his sophomore year (1962) at ISU. Poetry had been previously unneeded in his life but now was available to contain parts of his soul that he hadn’t realized were there.

After graduating from ISU in 1966 there was the little matter of having to earn a living, which took the form of two years of high school English teaching, three years of tuning and repairing pianos, and (after a 1976 MS in Computer Science at Northern Illinois University) about 25 years of computer work (mainly programming, in-house computer teaching, and Web development—for Commonwealth Edison Company in Chicago).

During most of that vocational stint before retirement, Alan continued to write poems. Even with the whirl of commuting it was still possible to emote at home. He launched his current Web site (www.alharris.com) in 1995 with a few poems, and eventually has populated it with almost everything he has written. As a poet, essayist, story-writer, and photographer he has spurned the print publication route, having seen the excruciations gone through by other writers trying to make a big name and big money for themselves via magazine and book publishers. With the Web, there’s instant publication, moneyless communication, and a worldwide potential audience. Of course, the literature has to stand on its own feet to get readers, but it’s always there for those who seek it, or just happen in, or get sent in.

Alan met his wife Linda at ISU in 1962 and they were married in 1966. Linda has worked as a school speech therapist, insurance medical office worker, and medical transcriptionist, in addition to being a con-scientious wife, mother, and grandmother. They have a son, Brian, who is a percussionist.

Thunderbolt Blooming - Alan Harris · as forgotten feelings blazed up in the tangy wind. Today,...

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